we've become walking coffins

throwing dirt on ourselves

with the idea that if we all

somehow, managed

to care less

loss will never find us

but the slow death of feeling

buries us alive

and i,

am not yet ready to die

My heart

Is ripped up,

And sewn

Back together

Like patchwork.

It beats,

But it's

Not the same

Without the

Pieces of you.

and we are still strangers who only find each other

in the starlit hours

our love is unconscious and ceases to exist

when you wake up in the morning, drink your coffee and realize you've made yet another mistake

you look at me as if you were expecting something better, lovelier

as if we did not travel through the nights so closely

as if we never went anywhere, as if we were never anything other than a dream

Your kisses

Your tierno touch

Waltzing through my soul

My Mis+ake

I loved you

You didn't

I love you

You don't

My Mis+ake

You're not the first

You won't be the last

I always love even when I know it'll hurt

I doubt that is My Mis+ake

I want to write. Write until my hands no longer remember how to form sentences. Write until my feelings are spelled out perfectly onto the page. Write until my heart doesn't feel like an empty black hole. I want to write until my hands go numb. Even after all these things, I will continue to write. Because I can't tell if writing is healing or hurting me.